Vonda McIntyre - The Moon and the Sun

She closed the keyboard and gazed at the smooth wood. She was spent.

Somehow, somehow, I must make His Majesty see what he’s doing, she thought. He loves music. If he would only listen to the sea woman, he might see what I see, he might understand her.

The door of the dressing room opened. Startled, Marie-Josèphe looked up. She expected no one. Her sister had gone to attend Mary of Modena; Yves had gone to attend the King’s awakening.

Gazing at her ardently, Lorraine stood in the doorway between her bedroom and Yves’ dressing room. Dark circles under his eyes marred his beauty.

“Do you enter a lady’s room without invitation, sir, or chaperone?”

“What need have we of chaperones, my dear? We needed none on the Grand Canal.”

His velvet cloak, sadly wrinkled and salt-stained, lay in a heap in the corner. He retrieved it and shook it out.

“You’ve had your use out of my cloak, I see.”

“You may have it back.”

He held its collar to his face. “Your perfume scents it. Your perfume, your sweat, the secrets of your body…”

She turned away, embarrassed, flustered.

“May I have not even a smile? The King offers me as a sacrifice to your beauty, but you break my heart. I lay my finest garment at your feet—but it is nothing!” He flung the cloak to the floor. “I destroy myself with worry about you—” He stroked one finger across his cheek, beneath the dark circle.

“You destroy yourself,” Marie-Josèphe said drily, “by revelling all night in Paris.”

Lorraine laughed, delighted. “Dr. Fagon did you good! You are yourself—and cured of your fantasies, I trust.” He leaned on the harpsichord, gazing soulfully at her.

“You helped Dr. Fagon steal my strength. If the sea woman dies, I’ll never recover it.”

“When she’s gone, you’ll find another cause to occupy your mind. And your heart. A husband. A lover.” He moved nearer, feigning interest in the musical score.

“It isn’t proper for you to be here, sir.”

Behind her, he pressed against her back. His scent smothered her. He laid his hands on her shoulders, slipped his fingers beneath her hair, beneath her shift, cupped his hands around her breasts. His hands were hot on her skin. She froze, with shock and cold and outrage.

“Mlle de la Croix,” Count Lucien said from the doorway. “I see that you are protected from surgeons.”

His voice broke her paralysis. Count Lucien bowed and disappeared. Marie-Josèphe broke from Lorraine’s grasp.

“Count Lucien!” She ran after him. He limped toward the stairs. “I—the Chevalier—it wasn’t—”

“It wasn’t?” Count Lucien said. “That’s a shame.”

“A—a shame?”

Count Lucien faced her, leaning on his walking stick, gazing up quizzically.

“His Majesty himself favors the match. Lorraine belongs to an illustrious family, but he is perpetually in need of money. You will have a generous dowry from His Majesty. An alliance between you and Lorraine will repair both your fortunes.”

“I have no amorous feelings for the Chevalier de Lorraine.”

“What has that to do with marriage?”

“I scorn him!”

“Against the King’s will?”

“I’ll never marry him!” Marie-Josèphe shivered, seeing Lorraine’s intense blue eyes above her, while the surgeon’s blade slashed her. She slipped her right hand beneath her left sleeve. The bandage was wet with blood.

“Perhaps you should tell that to Monsieur.”

“Why would I tell His Majesty’s brother?”

“Why are you telling me?”

“Because I have—because I wish you to think well of me.”

“I think well enough of you.”

Lorraine slammed the door of Marie-Josèphe’s room and sauntered toward them. His cloak swept from one shoulder.

“The jester and the wild Carib maiden,” he said, laughing. “What a combination!”

Count Lucien stepped forward, holding his cane at his side as if it were a sword. If they fought, Lorraine would surely wound or kill him. Lorraine wore a real sword, while Count Lucien carried only his dirk.

“You are very rude, sir!” Marie-Josèphe said.

Lorraine laughed. “Chrétien, is she your protector?”

“Apparently she is. I trust yours is as valiant.”

“I have a sovereign who forbids duelling. I choose to obey him—in all things.” He stalked past them and descended the stairs.

“I’m so sorry.” Marie-Josèphe leaned against the wall. “I spoke out of turn.”

A handsbreadth of edged steel gleamed between the staff and the handle of Count Lucien’s walking-stick. Count Lucien pushed and twisted the handle; the sword cane clicked ; the blade disappeared.

“Lorraine is quite right,” Count Lucien said. “His Majesty forbade duelling. No doubt you’ve saved my head.”

“You’re making fun of me, sir—”

“On the contrary.”

“—when I hope for your regard.”

“My regard, and more,” Count Lucien said. “For your own happiness, you must set your sights elsewhere.”

Marie-Josèphe returned to her room, pressing through the ruins of all her fine plans. She refused to think about what Count Lucien had said. She returned to the harpsichord, to the one thing that had gone right. She gathered together the score of the sea woman’s cantata.

I’ve done justice to her music, Marie-Josèphe thought. When His Majesty hears it, and I tell him who it belongs to, he must believe what I say about her.

She still felt light-headed, but she no longer feared she would faint. She carried the score through the chateau to the musicians’ room. She peeked in, hoping to find M. Minoret, the King’s strict music master of the third quarter, or M. de la Lande, the charming master of the fourth quarter. For His Majesty’s celebration, all four chapel masters and all the King’s musicians gathered at Versailles. His Majesty’s guests were never without music.

Master Domenico Scarlatti sat alone at the harpsichord. Marie-Josèphe waited, enjoying the unfamiliar music, till he finished with a cascade of embellishments, stopped, looked out at the beautiful day. He sighed heavily. Staring out the window, he fingered variations one-handed.

“Démonico.”

“Signorina Maria!” He jumped up. He sat down, despondent. “I’m not to rise for two whole hours.”

“I won’t interrupt.” She embraced him. “That was lovely.”

“I’m not supposed to play it.” He played another variation. “Only what papa has planned for the King.”

“Is it your own?”

“Did you like it?”

“Very much.”

“Thank you,” he said shyly.

“You’ll be able to play whatever you like, when you’re older,” she said. “I doubt anyone could stop you!”

He grinned. “In two years—when I’m eight?”

“Perhaps in two years—when you’re ten.”

“What’s that? His Majesty’s cantata? Can I see?”

He paged through it, jerking his head to its rhythms, humming an occasional note, fingering with his free hand.

“Oh, it’s wonderful! It’s ever so much better—” He stopped, embarrassed. “I mean—that is—”

“Than what I played at St Cyr?”

“Forgive me, Signorina Maria, but, yes, ever so much better.”

“You said you liked the other songs.”

“I, that is, they were pretty, but I—I wanted you to like me so you’d marry me. When I grow up.”

“Oh, Démonico.” She smiled, amused through her distress, but she could not humiliate him by telling him their stations were impossibly distant. “I’m far too old for you, I’ll be an old lady before you’re ready to marry.”

“I wouldn’t care—and M. Coupillet is an old man!”